The Lothlorien Adventure
by Kavindra Miette
Summary: The title stinks, (and all authors will tell you this) the story doesn't. And so it was, the mistake was made. The weapon of the enemy was cast into the metallic blue hands of Galadriel, Lady of the Galdrim. It's up to the Fellowship to stop the rampage.


 SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1          Galadriel Goes Viking 

            Hello there! This fic was written in a fit of insane boredom at my grandparents' house; attributed to the hallucinations that often appear when you have nothing else to do but be lethargic. I unearthed it on a stray floppy disk and decided to post it, to make up for the slump I've been in lately. Hope you like it! ^_^ 

            DISCLAIMER: I do not own Lord of the Rings or its characters. They belong to Tolkien, or at least they did before he sold the rights. Now I guess it's a toss up between Peter Jackson and the publishing company, but I digress. Onward we go.  

Frodo knew almost immediately that it had definitely not been one of his best ideas. 

What, exactly, had crossed his mind and persuaded him to show off the ring to this loopy elfin 

queen? He hadn't a clue, as well as to no idea as to why the ring was now sitting comfortably in 

his outstretched hand. He certainly didn't remember sticking his arm into his shirt or pulling it off over his head, so why it was even out in the open was a complete mystery. Frodo nervously looked up, and eyed Galadriel with suspicion. Not only did she look a bit on the dangerously entranced side, but also Frodo keenly remembered her psychic ability. Right then. She'd moved the ring. But then, maybe that meant that she wanted it. Frodo didn't mind the slightest giving it up, so he said so. 

            "If you ask it of me," he said simply, "I will give you the One Ring." 

            Galadriel's eyes flared. As soon as she did that Frodo knew that he had just made another whopper of a mistake. He just wasn't having a good day in the decisive department. 

            "You offer it too me freely?" mused Galadriel, slowly coming forward. Frodo gulped. 

            "I will not deny that my heart has greatly desired this. Power in my reach..." 

            Galadriel froze, an evil smile fixed on her face. Frodo instinctively took quite a few steps back. He was just glad she wasn't chasing him. Of course, perhaps he would have chosen that over Galadriel suddenly turning a metallic shade of turquoise. 

            "In place of a dark lord you will have a QUEEN!!!" bellowed Galadriel, flinging her arms out. Frodo had no idea how she was doing it, but Galadriel seemed to be giving off wind. Perhaps she had eaten one to many pieces of overly bubbly lembas bread? Everything in the proximity was being flung wildly about; the trees, the water in that accursed magical bird bath, her hair, his hair, probably Legolas's hair- which would prompt him to violence-, and various articles of clothing. Who knew that elves could unleash hurricanes at will? 

            "TERRIBLE AND BEAUTIFUL AS THE MORN!!! TREACHEROUS AS THE SEA!!! STRONGER THAN THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE EARTH!!! ALL SHALL LOVE ME AND DESPAIR!!!" 

            Frodo, who was absolutely terrified of this blue foghorn of an elf, made once again a rash decision. He was only a minuscule hobbit from the Shire; not one used to bazooka blondes, and as such he wanted to make her feel better. A hug would have been in order, if she hadn't been so intimidating, but Frodo went for something better. Or so he thought, and his grievous error hit him only after he had committed it.   

            Aragorn had been having a nice dream. He had been in one of Rivendell's bathing rooms; lounging around in an enormous pool of silky bubbles. Normally he didn't like scrubbing or cleanliness or any of that, but this was different. Arwen had just come into the picture. Arwen was wearing nothing more than a bathrobe. She was giving Aragorn that mischievous little smile, preparing to jump in the bath with him (without the robe, of course), when Aragorn was shaken out of his sleep. He grumbled as he sat up, but then regained his grave, diplomatic Ranger of the North composure. Frodo was standing next to his bed, looking incredibly distressed. His massive eyes were bulging even more than they usually were, and Aragorn could detect one or two tear trickles. 

            "Frodo?" he asked quietly, not wanting to wake anyone else up, "Is there something wrong?"  

            Frodo made a few low gurgling sounds, and looked down at the ground. Aragorn noticed that every single toe was curled under. 

            "Frodo," he said again, more firmly, "What happened? Tell me now." 

            "I…I… I just.…Galadriel.…" stammered Frodo, frantically chewing a nail.

            "Galadriel?" echoed Aragorn, "What do you mean by Galadriel?" 

            'She was walking...and then I heard her, and I followed..…and then...then I looked into that mirror, and….and.…" 

            Aragorn was sensing that something rather imperiling had happened. He knew he had never had an affinity for the female ruler of Lothlorien.   

            "Your story goes on, Frodo," said Aragorn, "You are not telling me all of it." 

            "I showed her the ring, Aragorn!" cried Frodo, burying his face in his hands, "I don't know how it got there, it just suddenly appeared in my hand. And then I said I would give it to her, and she tuned blue and evil and terrible. She was blue, Aragorn! Blue! Elves aren't supposed to be blue!" 

            Aragorn clamped his hands onto Frodo's arms. 

            "Frodo," he whispered, "What happened to the ring?" 

            Frodo didn't answer. He just stared blankly, not meeting Aragorn's eyes. 

            "Frodo!"said Aragorn, his voice rising, "Did you give the ring to Galadriel? Answer me!" 

            Still Frodo said nothing. 

            "Frodo!" 

            Frodo closed his eyes, swallowed loudly, and murmured "Yes."  

            Legolas Greenleaf, prince of Mirkwood, son of Tharanduril, a common spokesperson for elven hair products, was sleeping daintily in the roots of a mallorn tree. Now, normally he wasn't exactly fond of the Galadrim, but their beds had changed his mind; at least for the moment. The sheets were soft, of incredibly high thread-count, the pillows were puffy and wonderfully cuddlesome, and most of all the luxurious cots were quite in tune with nature, being nestled in a giant plant and all. It was no doubt a most lovely place for an elf, and Legolas was reflecting that. He knew that under regular circumstances elves didn't need rest; or even to close their eyes, but he had to make an exception. Just this once. Luxury was something he had never been able to refuse. And besides, he had brought along his special elf pajamas, and he_ couldn't_ pass up the opportunity to show them off. He didn't have the obligation to be manly, as Aragorn did, so he could prance about all he wished wearing silken purple tights. Ah, it was good to be an elf. A warm elf, nestled under gossamer blankets. A comfortable elf. A happy elf. Legolas sleep-grinned, and hugged his pillow in content. He would feel so good in the morning-

            A deafening rumble roused him from his slumber. Legolas groggily sat up, adjusting his slightly mussed hair, and blinked absently for several seconds before he realized that Lothlorien was alight in a positively beastly turquoise glow. It most certainly clashed with the emerald leaves and the pale, flowy garments of the residents. Legolas reached for his quiver and bow, ready to embark and find out what exactly was causing this strange phenomenon. No doubt the others would follow soon enough. He slung his belongings over his shoulder and stood, and just as he did so, the source of the light came to him. 

            Whether or not she had possessed the ability before was unknown. What was obvious now was that Galadriel, aside from her many other psychic skills, could now levitate. She glided up over the crest of a hill, right into a stunned Legolas's field of view. 

            "Lady Galadriel?" he stammered, clutching his weapons, "My lady?" 

            Galadriel did not answer him; just merely looked his way with an eerily bemused smile. Legolas may have been beautiful of face, and quite the connoisseur of hair care, but he was not as stupid as he would seem. He was devastatingly good at assessing various situations and then explaining them to the other, less elven members of the Fellowship in an easy-to-understand manner. The problem was, many of them, with the exception of Pippin, usually had already figured out what was going on. Legolas, though no one would say it right to him, was just the glorified voice of the obvious. 

            No matter, though. The elven wonder was in no position to do that now, as he had absolutely no idea as to what was going on. Why was Galadriel wandering around, outfitted in a metal bodice and gleaming with blue light? Had she had too much lembas bread again? She was standing still now, staring at him placidly, the unsettling smile still fixed on her oddly silver face. Legolas took a step forward, and that was when he saw it. Hanging around Galadriel's neck, shimmering right along with her, was the ring. The One Ring, forged-by-Sauron-in-the-fires-of-Mount-Doom, if-it-falls-into-the-wrong-hands-everyone-is-definitely-doomed, should-belong-to-that-one-halfling-with-the-big-blue-eyes ring. What was his name again? Fido? Froofroo? Fro-something. Fro-bo, Fro-lo, Fro-do- That was it. Frodo. Legolas frowned, sorting everything out mentally. If Frodo was the one who was supposed to have the ring, then why in Middle-Earth did Galadriel have it? Was she one of the "wrong hands" types? Judging by the blue color, and that evil curling of lips she was still sending in his direction, Legolas would guess yes, she is for _sure_ someone we don't want to give the Dark Lord's favorite weapon to. But if that was the case, then how did she come by it?  

            Legolas, lost in deep elven thought process, hardly noticed the burly Gimli come crashing through the underbrush. He was swinging his warrior axe, a weapon most detested by the elves, but typically he did not give that even a passing thought. 

            "Aye, I 'eard you squealin', pointy ear!" he said gruffly, lumbering around a pondering Legolas, "What seems to be the problem? What, with this horrid light and-" 

            Gimli froze mid-sentence. He had seen Galadriel, and his heart, in a matter of several fractions of a second, had melted indefinitely. It was the metal bra that had done it. Dwarf women wore metal bras. Gimli was beyond help. 

            "I wasn't _squealing_," Legolas sniffed, before he noticed that Gimli was intoxicated beyond noticing other people, "Gimli? Gimli, are you listening to me?" 

            "My lady," murmured Gimli, slowly walking towards her, "My laaaaaaaady…" 

            A/N: Oh dear. Looks like the Fellowship has a rather large problem to contend with, eh? This story isn't too problematic to write; I might be able to update more frequently than on my other efforts. Let's hope. ^_^  Review if you wish (I love reviews). I'll try to respond to each one, and as always am open to suggestion or constructive criticism. Farewell for now! : ) 

~Kavindra  


End file.
